I’m pretty confident I am ready for the school year to be complete. I really am over fourth grade. In fact, I was over it back in 1980 something too. Now it’s all coming back to me because I have little children. Little children that still need my help with homework. What they don’t get is I need Google and I need sleep. Oh thank heavens for Google. Education is just different these days. Seriously how in the world did I get a college degree and start and manage a business? I think we were still on cut and pasting in the fourth grade. Oh and fractions and decimals, that $h*t didn’t start until Junior High.
So after an eight-hour day of work, dinner, baths, homework (sort of) and getting three kids to bed, sometimes mommy dearest can make mistakes. Especially when it comes to checking fourth grade Math homework. It happens, people, let it go! A free pass for incorrectness should be an excusable mishap given most nights I wrestle my three-year old to get to sleep. Oh and laying in bed with my five-year old while he reads to me, it is sweet on most odd days but every other day including Holidays, I sometimes want to pull my hair out. Just say the word already. It sounds like shout.
My patience runs low on energy at about 8:00p.m. Plus fourth grade Math homework is waiting for me after ‘Splat the Cat‘. I am not a bad mom, I’m real. You know it parents, frustration with a capital F. Oh my friends, that is a whole other blog post bubbling in my veins but for now we focus here on Math mistakes.
Because they can and will happen. And when I am exhausted, the last thing I want to do is help my son with his Math homework. So if I incorrectly add and multiple then divide by ten thousandths and make my ten-year old change his answers, I think I get a free pass. If the stupid a$$ decoder using our answers gives us *asphault soup, then so be it. If asphalt is also misspelled, than please excuse that as well.
So, please Mrs. Teacher do not reprimand my son for being mischievous. I made him change the answers and the two freaking words with one misspelled fit in the boxes so with much sleep deprivation and mommy exhaustion we decoded *asphault soup instead of getting the said better code of alphabet soup. I mean really, no need to send an email. No need to hand out the pink detention slips. Although I wouldn’t mind sitting alone in a Library for an hour with complete silence.
Because in all reality, why after two hours of working through the problems do we have to then play Pink Panther and decode the secret riddle anyways? Just turn the $h*t in and call it a day. Yep, that’s what happens when you have that attitude. My son is still calling me out for it. He was summoned to the teacher’s desk for being naughty. It was I Mrs. Teacher and I am freaking tired. So if school does not get out for summer soon, this mama will be face planting in *asphault soup.
So, I ask, what BIG mistake have you made when helping little missy or junior with their homework?
*Asphalt purposely misspelled to fit on a line. Namaste!
I had this bright idea about three weeks ago for Friday family movie night. I figured I’d light a fire, make some organic popcorn via stove top and put in E.T. It was PG right and the 1980’s were such an innocent time. For instance, I only had to fast forward a few times during the opening scene when the junior high boys and their little siblings were playing poker and smoking cigarettes. It’s all good. Oh and just one other time when one of the characters was calling Elliot “penis breathe.” Such a different time back then. Take note I am still not explaining what “penis breathe” is and oh my goodness the cigarettes and second-hand smoke, what is that they ask? Fast forward. Fast forward. Fast forward.
Well I might have dodged a few bullets and left Google to curious minds (insert website parental block) but I cannot escape from E.T. I cannot escape from the fact that for three weeks E.T. has caused me 21 sleepless nights. The fact that the slimy little alien resides in my three-year olds closet and now he refuses to sleep in his room or own bed. The fact that E.T. will not go home. He has traumatized my parental guidance well-being as well as my three-year old.
Whose fancy idea was it again to watch this during family movie night? Never, ever assume PG in the 1980’s is equivalent to a negative G un-squared rating in the millenia. Just because our parents exposed us to such horror in extra terrestrial beings, fury hairball Gremlins and homes in Amityville does not mean we should be quick to assume these viewings as 1980’s young-ins were safe and in our best interests as children. Perspectives change big time in 30 years. Imaginations are now technologically stimulated. “Penis breathe” is disgusting and microwaves and fury animals should never coincide. I should have researched a 1980’s PG rating. I mean it would have told me rated as such for language and mild thematic elements. Never assume, mommy. Never assume!
Plus as a mother of three boys, it is bad enough I have enough masculine energy in my home to last me a lifetime. I don’t need to stimulate the thoughts of little boys or need fake aliens harassing me. I would be horrified if my son’s kindergarten teacher called me because my little Noochie was in the principal’s office for calling a fellow kindergartener a “penis breathe.” Oh and the thought of my little dog being a test pilot for a Gremlins retake in my stainless steel microwave just sends chills up my spine. Do not give my boys any more ideas. And E.T., please phone your mother and go home already! You are driving me nuts!
Well, last night just like clockwork, little Peeno ventured into our bedroom teary-eyed and horrified. E.T. was screaming and giggling in his closet. As usual, the response was, “E.T. IS NOT REAL! Go to sleep!” Then in the morning little Peeno ran out again in tears because I left him alone in my king size bed and E.T. could have escaped from his closet and taken him. I can’t win. Plus my five-year old chimes in, “So, mommy, is E.T. then fictional or nonfictional?” I literally spit out my coffee laughing. He is so academically literal and if I answered, “He’s not real,” I would have been given a literary lecture. So I answered, “He is fictional. Now please eat your breakfast.”
Now given that my children run circles around me from sun up to sun down and I have no time for searching for E.T., I probably would never have gotten to the bottom of the horror in his closet. But since my hubby is a kid at heart, if you will, he went on an all out search for E.T. with the boys. If I ever credit this man for his childlike behavior, it will be for the finding of E.T.
So while they were on an alien hunt I was getting ready for work, packing lunches, doing laundry, woofing down breakfast and getting ready to make my bed. You know, big kid things. Then there on my bed was an article of clothing and a few accessories that I haven’t seen or touched in many years. It was my wedding slip, veil and tiara head-piece. I come running out to the kitchen where the alien hunt meeting was taking place and start frantically asking who touched this and why is it on my bed and flipping out of sorts. My husband looks at me and says, “Do you want to get to the bottom of the E.T. debacle or what?”
I sure do but not at the expense of my time and secretly hidden garments from the boys. There are certain things that are just off-limits and I purposely hid them in the closet so nobody will touch them. As all eyes are looking at me while I’m holding the garments and accessories, their gazes became blinding. In that moment of darkness I realized I was holding E.T. and I hid him in the closet. Oh my heavens. So, now that I just freaked out on everybody I looked at them and sure enough, my husband says, “THAT, what you are holding, is E.T.” E.T. was hiding in Peeno’s closet after all. In fact the more I looked at it, I could see the slimy alien dressed in a wig and tiara hiding in the closet. I just had a major mommy failure.
Can You See The Resemblance?
So the moral of the situation goes if your three-year old says E.T. is in his closet, he probably is. If more often than not your husband acts like a child, it may just save the day. For as a grown, mature adult, I never would have taken up the hunt for E.T. Like my five-year old, we are too literal. For in our minds E.T. is fictional. It’s black or white and everyone should grasp this concept in my family.
But in the future I will get down like GI-Joe ready to turn into The Hulk if need be to find the 1980’s or equivalent creatures that lurk in the closets of little boys. Now that E.T. is in my closet, I should get a complete night of sleep. Until next time when they stumble upon the clawed pinstripe sweater man, Freddy. Oh and if you sometimes question your sanity, blame it on the movies we were exposed to in the 80’s. It’s all Spielberg’s and the likes fault.
Every four weeks for an hour and forty-five minutes I get a mommy break. I get to sip coffee, read Gossip magazines, wear a cape, look frazzled and have chemicals eating away at my scalp. The salon I go to when I need to wash my grays away also gives you a hand, arm and scalp massage. In the one and three quarter hours I am there, I relax, rejuvenate and get made all pretty. As a mom of three boys under the age of nine, sometimes this is how you have to get a break in. For some it is a shopping trip alone to the grocery store. You know when buying jar pasta sauce, tuna in a can and peanut butter takes four hours. Yet for you, wandering the aisles meditating to Kraft, Smuckers and Revlon is all it takes to stoke your inner being. I get it, I just prefer to sit and meditate while burning my scalp.
So you can all appreciate by reading my posts and following my blog how wild and crazy Me 4.0 can be at times. If you just ventured here via a Google search gone wrong or a 6.9 second blip across the WordPress topic screen, then stop right here. Read this first, Life In My Fast Lane. So, as you know or can see, if I can get 1.75 hours of chillaxin time humming to the tune of a hairdryer and lots of ladies yapping about nonsense, that to me is the equivalent as consuming a bottle of wine. Plus I do not have a two-day hangover afterwards either. Not that, that ever happens. Like ever. But you get the idea.
So a few days ago was mommy’s big night out. I found a parking spot that did not require a meter donation and ventured into my oasis spot. I chatted with my stylist a bit while she slapped the sticky brown chemicals on my head and then she set the timer of bliss. Now for the next forty-five minutes I can indulge in smut, sip a warm beverage and sit. Just sit. Bethenny Frankel‘s divorce was way too predictable and the fact that a princess is going to be a mama doesn’t really interest me. I’m happy and all for the Royal family and the soon to be little squirt but really, enough is enough. So, I open up my Whole Living Magazine and get caught up on the mind, body and soul connection. I mean it was only the August 2012 Edition. How do you say speed reader? I really should be on June 2013’s edition so I can get a head start on my Independence Day planning. I mean fireworks are nothing if you don’t have chia seed fruit pops in red, white and blue. That is the latest copy I received, right? Really, why do magazines do that?
Never mind. That is not important. What is important is the fact the very loud woman in the swivel chair next to me, caused me much anguish. You see somewhere between reading the ingredients for a Tahini-Mango smoothie to getting down with Deepak Chopra, I had a self-induced anxiety attack. After the ninth foil went into her bleach blonde hair, she proceeded to ask her stylist, “Did you happen to see any bugs?” Suddenly it was as if the power went out because the whole salon/spa became silent with the exception of someone’s eyebrow that just got waxed off. Did you say bugs lady?
Yes, oh yes, she did. She has lice. That is in, the present, right now, currently is with bugs. This is how you lay it down lady? This is how you break the news to your stylist? Because oh cancelling the appointment until you were bug free wouldn’t have been the wiser choice. Instead, this selfish little lady getting her hair all done up, relaxing to no avail with a bug infested head while I am squirming in my chair was the better option, right? But get this. The stylist keeps foiling and color applying. I would have put a bag over her head and escorted her out with some Aveda Comforting Tea.
Now there must be some sort of “never let the client see you sweat” protocol at the salon because I know the stylist was dying. I just do not get why she kept on going. Find a way to get off that head. Instead she brings a senior stylist over to talk product and bug zapper companies that can treat her head and home. That’s right, because white bugs can jump. In fact, they can jump very far. Possibly like right over to where my head, coat and purse were. They also like warm, clean, dim-lit spaces. Yes, well don’t we all after the age of 35? Now please get your head out of here.
I could see this wasn’t happening. I can appreciate the stylist’s professionalism. Even as the sweat beads ran down her forehead and she was basically in plank position applying the color she was all smiles and uh-huhs. Then she finished up and bolted. Great. What about me? That’s right, little miss I do everything for everyone just got selfish. What about me? I don’t want any bugs!
So, I took action. I got up and refilled my Aveda Comforting Tea multiple times, browsed the retail rack and scheduled 18 future appointments with the receptionist. As I watched from afar as she sat there sipping her coffee, getting fifty shades lighter and flipping through the Cosmo pages I couldn’t help but want to throw a bottle of Volumizer at her to go with her already inflated selfish little head. My timer was ticking away and I was loosing my precious mommy night out time to bug girl. Then she had the nerve along with the rest of the salon to look at me as to why I was wandering around aimlessly with my little black cape. So I sit back down. Then I starting thinking about all my friends and family who had lice and what they had to go through. It is unfortunate and I truly wouldn’t wish that upon anyone. But if you know you have an issue, don’t spread it. So I refill my tea for the tenth time and use the restroom for the sixth time.
Upon passing the shampoo bowl, I wanted to vomit thinking about how many bugs went swimming or will go swimming in there soon. I had to do something big. I only had fourteen minutes left on the ticker and then my mommy night out time would soon be up. No more sitting, sipping and browsing. It will be all over soon. If they weren’t going to move her, then I was going to move. So I venture out into the reception area. The staff at this point probably thought I was bloated with gas problems or going through some kind of substance withdrawal with all my movement, fidgeting and trips to the restroom. Plus I looked like Wonder Woman gone wrong.
Ladies you know what I mean when you get your hair-colored but seriously I look like Medusa in a cape. Scary stuff. Funny as they wouldn’t put an end to bug girl but they asked if I wouldn’t mind going back into the style chair because they prefer no color get on the reception sofa. Oh but lice infesting the joint was A-Okay.
I knew I had to think big and act swiftly. So I gently loosen my smock cape just enough that it would “accidentally” drag on the floor and I refill my tea. Again. As I was proceeding back to the adjustable-height, swivel chair, I “accidentally” tripped over my smock cape and my tea went flying onto my chair, the floor and my station mirror. For all of you that frequent salons, then you know where there’s hair product there’s wire. My intentions were not to cause an electrical shortage. But those sparks registered on the magnitude of a bug zapper hanging from a tree in the night of summer. Several stylists ran over and asked if I was okay and not to worry about it. Then the magic words, “Why don’t you have a seat over here?” Finally. Now with four minutes left to shampoo bowl time, a self-induced anxiety attack and a detox cleanse in motion courtesy of the eight gallons of Aveda Comforting Tea I consumed, this mama is back in business. I refuse to ever be a victim. Ever!
Three days and counting I am still bug free and I am devising a future plan in the event the salon is too tight on customer service to decline a bug head. I really don’t blame them. I shame and blame critter head.
May you all begin your weekend with an itch free head. I’m still scratching mine in awe. Please do not get me wrong. I am not being insensitive or judgemental of the fact that this lady had lice. I could only imagine what she has been going through. The issue here is that she failed to disclose or be sensitive to the salon patrons and for goodness sake her stylist.
So, what would you do? Would you voice your concern or put yourself into cardiac arrest? Is it fair to others to come to a salon when you have lice without consulting with them before services begin? What crazy thing have you done to get out of a bad situation?